


More Than What We've Had

by applejuice_motherfucker



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Blood, Healing, Hurt/Comfort, Kissing, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-06
Updated: 2013-05-06
Packaged: 2017-12-10 15:12:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,386
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/787448
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/applejuice_motherfucker/pseuds/applejuice_motherfucker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fear does not exist as long as he does.</p>
            </blockquote>





	More Than What We've Had

There is a flash, you're aware of that much. A flash and a clang of metal, blood pouring from the sky as the evening sun lilts from the heavens, the light cutting like a shard of glass through the alleyway. It has never been that safe of a place. The gun clashing against your blade is testament to that.

The man has your wrist in a vice grip, a sick hunger in his face, and your blade slips, cutting deep into his arm as he drops the gun and curses loudly to the clouds as they gather overhead. He lunges at you, filled with the rage of a fighting dog broken from his chain. He means to kill you, you can tell.

You don't give him the chance.

Your elevator is broken, much like your sword, abandoned by the body, kicked behind a dumpster and wiped clean of your prints. Blood is another issue, and your heart is frantic, your lungs barely keeping up with your body as you race up the stairs two, three at a time. The slam of your front door has never sounded so terribly beautiful before.

He stares at you, watching silently. He knows something is wrong, something is different this time. He ran out from the living room before you were even through the door. Your mouth attempts to explain but can't; you are trapped, first by his eyes, then his arms.

You can barely move beneath it, the heaving weight of his desperation, his panic and wrenching desire to know that you're okay. His hands frame your face, holding your jaw in place as he inspects you, reads your mind clearer than any word spoken. The blood dripping from your nose is yours, the rest is not. You are home, and you are alive, you are scared and allowing him to see, and he understands.

His heart breaks and you can hear it in each shattered, rattling pant of breath that strokes across your face like a lover, soothing and exciting all the same. You press a hand to his chest, a bandage to his wound in lieu of the kiss you would rather sink into each inch of skin that presents itself to you at his whim. Your eyes must be asking the questions that your mouth cannot.

He answers you with a kiss.

There is nothing soft about him, there never has been. As a child you were wrangled, instructed in the arts of blades and technology. He taught you how to walk and barely touched you ever again. You spoke to him and he stopped replying when you started understanding. You formed sentences around your neglect, and he sees it now, laid bare in every word and step you take. In every inch you back yourself up against the wall, in each twitch of your fingers as you pull him along with you. He sees it, the ways you've grown without him, that he is a benchmark in your eyes, a bar that will never be lowered, and that nothing lower than will ever suffice for you. He is more than he meant to make you believe. He's been far too hard on you, until now.

Now, he is soft, and now he kisses you.

He holds you against the wall, a hand sinking into your hair as he watches your eyes, the pad of a thumb brushing across your cheek, your lip. You grip his elbows and your lids flutter, your fingers curling into his skin, your mouth falling open as he sinks his teeth into the juncture of your neck, and holds you still. It doesn't hurt, it never could, and his thigh is between your legs. He makes a small, gruff grunt, an arm sliding around your waist, and your hips move almost like an experiment. He moves when you falter, hot against you, through your clothes, your eyes wetting as you stare at the ceiling above you.

You sing out a string of shaking little moans, too high in pitch to pretend that any semblance of control remains. His mouth kisses yours to seal you over and hush you, but of course it doesn't work. He gropes you, hand sliding hot under the back of your shirt to press hard between your shoulder blades, forcing your chest to crush into his and for a glorious second you are asphyxiated, paralysed between his heart and tongue and each beat pulses into you for every moment he spends further slipping you into the sweetness of delirium.

Your limbs are wild and useless, flimsy, chaotic with their grasp as you attempt to hold on, to anchor yourself against his tide and remain as close to him as you can lest you drown deep beneath. His hand smooths down across your spine and you can breathe again, your throat rasping as he grasps harder into your hair, and he teases at the waistband of your boxers, two fingers dipping beneath to rub your skin in tiny circles. He is whispering things, heated things, brazen and solicitous against your lips, his thigh between your legs rubbing you as you grind against it and shiver, goosebumps rising with each draw of breath he takes. He has never held you so hard before, never seen you so near, and you're sure you've never been closer to his heart than now. It's right there, beating into yours with each kiss and gasp he arouses from you, each twisting slip of his tongue against your own. He punctuates his words with soft nips, shallow flicks and strokes into your mouth, the heat in your head swelling to rouse fear of fainting, if you understood fear at this moment.

He is here, he is hot and safe around you, he is a wall against the world, a gate rusted shut to hinder its foulness and danger.

Fear is not a thing here; fear does not exist as long as he does.

You are allowed to break. You are allowed to bend and crumble behind his shield, his arms a cradle as he holds you up while your strength finally depletes and your adrenaline stutters under the weight of shared relief. You cling to his shoulders, body sinking as your resolve is cracked and splintered. He picks you up, presses you flush against the wall as he kisses you again, deep, a low groan rushing from him like it belongs to you. He sucks your tongue as he pulls back, eyes dark and heavy as they watch you, and moves to carry you over to the kitchen counter, setting you down and holding your face again.

He is mountainous above you, even as you sit high above the floor he still dominates your vision. Your shirt is removed and he finds your shades, dented and cracked, in your pocket, and replaces them with his own on your face.

You are painted with red ribbons, some shallow, some minuscule, some you don't even notice. He cleans every cut and graze, wraps your sprains, soothes your bruises. He kisses every part of you that he can reach and you don't realise you are crying until he wipes the tears from your cheek. He allows you this, lets you feel and be weak, lets you sniff and sob, your hands lingering at his arms and he does not move because God knows he should have granted you this long before now. The kiss pressed to your forehead should be symbolic, a healing gift to your wounded soul perhaps, but its not. It is full of heat and fire, a fathers pride, a brothers compassion, the longing empathy of a best friend, and he is all of these and none and more to you. Your fingers lock behind his neck and you kiss him again, quiet, defeated and whimpering as his hands nestle at your sides and there is no shame here. No shame in admitting what you feel or what you want because he feels and wants the same.

No shame, no fear, he is soft and warm above you, and when he finally takes you to bed you do not cry because there is no need. You are his focus, you always have been.

It is only now that he allows you to see it.


End file.
